Catch a Falling Star (13 page)

With a flash of red,
the directed energy bore a path just to the side of the farmer's
head, right into the floor. Miguel swore, momentarily conflicted
by the near-miss, his weapon barely hanging onto his
pain-wracked fingers by the trigger guard.

Farley, however, was
spurred to action by the smoking hole beside his face and swung
his beefy arms out as if he meant to swim away. His wild flail
caught Lyrianne, knocking her legs out from under her and the
pilot, who’d managed to avoid the desperate attack, was then
lunging over the fat man in an attempt to save Lyrianne.

It was all very messy
for several seconds.

And Farley, more
lucky than smart, took advantage. He didn't stop to see if
Lyrianne was alright; he was only interested in getting himself
out of there. While Miguel was distracted with the woman, he
pounded up the stairs with joist-shaking haste. At first, he was
incapable of more thought than that he had to get away, but on
his way through the big living room, he spotted an old
projectile rifle on the wall. It was an antique, no longer
working, but he didn't know that. It looked like a good way to
defend himself and he tore it out of its mounting.

He didn't bother to
examine it, thinking it was an older version of the laser rifle
his family used which were designed to look like the out-dated
projectile rifles a few of the original colonists had brought
with them. He was out the front door and waddling as fast as his
legs could carry him toward the tree line. The whole way he
imagined he could feel the space jockey right behind him. It
kept him moving until he finally had to stop, unable to pull in
another breath. That's when he also stopped to think. He was
free and he would be the local hero who brought that pretty boy
Fed to the authorities.

Back at the
farmhouse, Lyrianne was being helped to a sitting position,
still gripping her broom though now it was support rather than a
club. It took the cold touch of air from the house fans cycling
on against her exposed skin for her to remember her current
state. She dropped the broom and tried to cover her breasts
again, more concerned with her nudity than any more bumps and
bruises. It was several minutes more before she realized they
were alone. She stood, the broom in one hand like a staff, and
turned in a circle to verify it.

“Miguel, where is
he?” She stared at the crater in the floor then back at the
pilot, her eyes wide at the image that came to her. The scorched
hole in the floor seemed a bit small, considering, but... “That
gun of yours can't disintegrate people, can it?”  

His answer was a
harsh snort of air through his mouth and a shake of his head. A
wave of rich brown hair fell across his eye and he impatiently
shoved it back. He’d have to get it cut when he got back. “He
took off,” Miguel said, only moving to the bottom of the steps
when Lyrianne was finally steady enough. “I need to go after
him.”

“No, don't bother.”
She knew things had just gone the worst way they could for her
but she could still hope the same wouldn't be true for Miguel.
She had to be sure he was safe, telling herself she would have
enough to deal with without having his fate on her conscience.
“You shouldn't have come back. You should be deep in hiding
somewhere.”

Sometime during her
struggle with Farley, her hair had been pulled loose from its
braid again and it fell around her, partially obscuring the gap
in her coveralls. She started to push it back over her shoulders
then realized it was serving a purpose. She pulled even more
lengths of hair forward after letting the broom drop to the
floor with a clatter, then came over to join the Fed pilot.

With a hand on his
arm, she looked up at his face. “You need to go, Miguel. Our
nearest neighbor is twenty miles away. Unless Farley is
incredibly lucky, he won't run into anyone for hours. You still
have time to get away.”

She started up the
stairs, stopping half way up to look down at him again. Her gaze
was intense, trying to memorize his face; an effort she knew was
foolish and pointless, but she couldn't help herself.

“The way the front
door slammed, he's in a panic. Though you can catch up to him,
I'm sure, what would be the point? He's not in any condition to
listen to anyone, let alone you, and, though you could knock him
out again and drag him back here, I don't want you to. I don't
want him in my house again. There's nothing left now short of
shooting him with more than a stun and I don't think you want to
do that. He's a stupid, horrid man but he's unarmed.”

She stared down at
him, taking a few more steps up before she paused again. “Take
the mule and get as far from here as you can like you planned to
do. I'll deal with Farley and... any others when the time
comes.” She thought of what would happen to her once Farley told
his story. But, that was not Miguel's fault or concern. She
would face it when it came. On her own. “Just make sure you hide
the bike so nobody will find it.”

Miguel’s expression
tightened and he thumbed the safety back on his weapon before
sliding it back into its holster. He didn’t take his eyes from
hers as he started up the stairs after her, stopping two steps
down. He looked at her straight.

“You think you can
handle him?” He sounded angry. “The way you were handling him
just now?” Really angry. “He weighs more in his foot than you do
all over and you think you can what?” He flicked a hand at the
busted-up front of her clothing. “Sweet talk him into
submission?”

Shaking his head, the
pilot moved up onto the next step. “No. I am not leaving you to
that
filth
.”

She refused to look
at him. He wasn't frightening her but his anger was affecting
her and it was a hundred times more potent than her fear of
Farley had been. Her head hung down, the curtain of hair
obscuring her expression from him. She took the next step
backwards, her hand on the rail to keep herself from sinking
down onto the step, or, possibly, falling into his arms. Not
trusting herself, she turned and proceeded up to the main floor
then to the front door. Gripping the handle she drew the door
open.

“Just get out,
Miguel.” She thought she was going to break down and was
fighting herself with stubborn determination. She would not fall
apart in front of him and would say anything to get him to go
before she did lose it all. “What happens to me is not your
concern. Just go so your people can get you off this worthless
little world. Go back to your shiny toys and fancy life.”

“You are an
infuriating woman,
querida
.” Following her to the front
door, he reached over her head and put his hand on the frame to
hold it still, then gazed down at her. She was so close that he
could smell the scents of the day collected in her hair.

“I am not leaving,”
he said again, the anger gone as if it had never been. What
replaced it was hard to say but she sensed it was no less
dangerous. Her hair, mussed as it was, tickled the underside of
his arm and the muscle in his chest jumped spasmodically.

“I am not leaving.”
He pushed his weight forward on the door, backing her up against
it. He did not touch her but they were close enough that they
could breathe each other in. The bolt on the door slid home.

She stared up at him,
the scent of his body, both the sweat and a faint smell of smoke
and chemicals she wasn't familiar with, were mixed with the
clean perfume of the soaps from his bath earlier. It was
intoxicating. Her hand had slipped from the door knob and it
came forward to lightly touch his chest. She'd felt a fluttering
in her stomach at his forceful refusal. What she was feeling was
most definitely not fear and it was growing the longer he stood
so close. But she knew, deep down, she mustn't allow herself to
give in to what she wanted. It was too late for that. There was
nothing ahead of her but trouble and an end to the life she'd
thought just hours before would be her future. He had no place
in it. In fact, he had no life ahead of him if he didn't go.

“Yes, you are.” Her
brows drew together as she summoned up anger to strengthen her
resolve. She pulled it from the hatred she now felt toward Fat
Farley. Any compassion or tolerance she'd once tried to foster
into some form of fondness toward the big oafish brute had been
torn away as surely as her clothes had been.

“I don't want you
here.” She hit him with closed fists then tried to push him away
instead of caressing and exploring the beautiful contours of his
muscled chest as she longed to do. “Get away from me. Just get
away. I don't want you here and this is my home. It's up to me,
not you. Go.”

He let her hit him,
not moving back or trying to stop her. Only compassion seemed to
reside in his expression as he continued to watch her face,
weathering her fists.

The fists opened, her
palms placed against his chest as she intended to push him
again. Instead they slid across the hard muscles, slipping
behind his back and she pressed herself against him. Her eyes
burned with unshed tears but there was no danger they'd find
their way to the surface. She could be grateful for that but not
for the way her lips trembled – hell, her whole body trembled.
She no more wanted him to see that than the proof of her
weakness in girly tears. Biting her lip, she placed her cheek
against him, hearing his heart beat, while she tried to pull
herself back together.

“You need to go,
Miguel. Please. What good will it do you to stay here now? I
don't want you to be caught. I couldn't bear it. Please.”

The feel of his bare
skin against her own, the rise and fall of his chest setting the
pace for her own breathing, were impossible to resist. She
shrugged her shoulders, using first one hand then the other to
expose more of her own flesh to his.
Exploring how it
felt, pressing even closer, she felt comfort in his body's
warmth against her heat. Her breathing quickened as she felt his
hips against her and her own hips moved slightly, seeking more.
Even his legs... she twined one of her legs around his to keep
as much of him in contact as possible. Touch by touch, she
lingered on the experience and what was happening inside her
until she got to his back, concentrating on the feel of muscles
and...

She gasped then moved
quickly, slipping from under his upraised arm to get a good look
at the skin on his back. It was red. There were raised blisters
and... “What happened? Is this what that blast did? I felt the
heat but you were on top of me. I didn't know it had done this.
I'm so sorry.”

He glanced over his
shoulder, concentrating more on keeping himself together than on
whatever his back looked like. Which was something, considering
his 'my body is my temple' attitude. Generally speaking, there
was another part of his body temple that needed his focus and
the tensing of his hands on the door in front of him were a good
indication of the tensing of the rest of him.

She hurried away from
him to retrieve a salve from the kitchen before he could catch
her and he groaned quietly as he pushed away from the door to
follow.

Chapter 9

The salve was a home
remedy, made from a native plant, and was excellent for treating
burns. Her turmoil and emotional weakness were gone once she
could concentrate on something else. She still trembled and felt
weak but now it was from an entirely different cause which
didn't disappear so easily though she did try to ignore it.

“Sit down. You should
have told me about this earlier.” Her scolding was softened by
the concern behind it. She pulled out a chair at the table and
set the jar down then pulled her coveralls back over her
shoulders. “This will do wonders for the blistering.” She raised
an eyebrow, a stubborn set to her jaw, reminding herself as much
as she was informing him. “Then you must go.”

Sighing, he wiped a
hand across his face and walked over, sitting down heavily in
the seat she'd indicated. “I wish you would stop saying that.”

“Why? It's the truth.
You cannot stay.” She tried to sound just as sure as before but
there was reluctance and something else she couldn't afford to
explore behind the words now.

In silence, she went
to work on the skin of his back, her hands gentle as they
applied the salve in whisper soft strokes. She allowed time for
the first layer, a thin one, to penetrate in order to give the
numbing qualities of the salve time to do their job. Then, with
wider strokes, she applied the second thicker layer. The salve
worked well. It was one of the secrets of the planet, only given
up to its new inhabitants after years of experimentation. It was
almost as effective as what modern medicine had to offer. Or, at
least what they were ever allowed to see of what modern medicine
had to offer.

“There. That should
help. How are the backs of your legs? Are they burned as well?”
She was suddenly too aware of his bare torso, not to mention how
much she wanted to see more of him. She blushed then backed up,
embarrassed at her thoughts, deliberately turning her back to
him before he could answer.

“I'll, uh, I'll get
you a shirt to cover up. And I'll give you the rest of the jar
of salve to apply. The burns don't look too serious. They'll
heal in a few days.” She went in search of another shirt, only
then wondering when he'd lost the one he'd been wearing. Or why
he was still barefoot. Or where the other clothes were...

“Did you lose track
of where you put your boots and stuff?” Her question was tossed
out from the top of the stairs before she headed down the hall
to her brothers' room; more for something to fill the silence
than out of real curiosity. She didn't pause long enough to hear
an answer.

Once in the bedroom,
she found a shirt for Miguel. On impulse, she pulled off her
coverall and moved to the chest of drawers that held her other
brother's belongings. He was still taller than her, but shorter
than the eldest. She dug through in search of something to
replace her ruined clothes, believing she'd left the space
jockey downstairs, and though she had, he hadn't stayed put as
she'd planned.